After Hours
by Lennelle
Summary: Sam's eleven days behind on sleep, strung out on God-knows-what, with the remains of his hallucinations still ringing in his ears. Dean tries his best to take care of him. 7.17 coda.


I shouldn't be filling prompts but I have zero self control. This prompt is from ohsam's November 2017 comment fic meme, from winchesterpooja: _Post episode 7.17, The Born Again Identity, Sam withdraws from all the crap he was given at the hospital._

Side note: my reversebang's posting date has moved from Nov 13th to Dec 1st.

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Sam shudders under Dean's palm. His spine is ridged, curved and pressing so close to the skin of his back that Dean can visualise it piercing through. He's skinny, too skinny, but that doesn't stop him throwing up what little is in his stomach.

After a few minutes, Sam is still and breathing heavy against the toilet seat.

"You done?" Dean asks, and gets no response. "Do you think you can make it to the bed? We can wedge a trash can between your knees if you think you're still gonna hurl."

Sam's only reply is long sigh as he begins to slip sideways. Dean peers at his face to find his eyes closed, fast asleep. He catches him around the waist before he hits the tiled floor. Sam jolts awake, blinking up at Dean blearily.

"Hmm?" He's floppy, hand reaching out for... something, missing, and falling back to his lap. Eleven days with no sleep and the Devil shouting in his ear, Dean can't blame the kid for not firing on all cylinders. He knocks the toilet lid down with his elbow and flushes before hoisting Sam up as carefully as he can by the armpits. The pain of his disturbed ribs seem to wake him up a little.

By some miracle, Sam gets his feet under him long enough to make the few steps to the bed, all the while partially draped over Dean's shoulder. Sam's fast asleep again as soon as he hits the pillows, sprawled out across the thin motel bed-sheet. Dean undresses his own bed and covers Sam in his quilt, then he drops into the armchair by the TV. He switches on some crappy horror movie, dropping the volume low enough that he has to read the actors' lips.

Sometime around dawn, when the birds decide to sing up a racket and the sky is pale purple, Dean jolts awake to Sam's groaning. He peers over the back of his chair to find him hunched over the edge of the bed, arms shaking almost as much as his legs. He gets up slowly and inches unsteadily towards the bathroom. Dean jumps to his feet.

"You ok? What's wrong?"

Sam pauses only to glare at him. "Gotta pee," he mumbles, letting the bathroom door slam shut behind him. Dean's tempted to linger outside the bathroom and twiddle his thumbs until Sam reappears, but decides instead to grab some food. Sam needs something in him or he might pass out. Again.

He stops by the nearest diner - painted a hideous pink with floors sticky enough to make his shoes squeak - and asks for a shitload of coffee, bacon and eggs and pancakes. Sam's back on the bed, legs and arms hanging off the edge like he dropped there and didn't bother to move, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Grubs up," Dean announces. Sam sniffs the air, nose crinkling, then rolls over and away.

Sighing, Dean sets the food on the table and leans over to prod Sam's shoulder. "You need to eat something."

"Maybe later," Sam says, but everything loops together like it's one word.

"No, now. When was the last time you ate?"

The shrug of Sam's shoulders has Dean wanting to kick something. Sure, Dean thinks he's going crazy sometimes, but he's never heard voices that weren't there. The only time he was on a locked ward was when it was his job to be there, not because he was really sick.

He thinks back a few days ago when he woke up to find the next bed empty and Sam's cell not picking up. Then came the call telling him his brother was in a car accident. And then there was the news Sam had been admitted to the locked psychiatric ward. And the drugs Sam had in his system before he even got to the hospital... Jesus, Dean doesn't even want to think about how desperate Sam was.

"You gonna sleep then?"

Sam shrugs again. "Not tired anymore," he says, even though his eyes aren't all the way open.

"I can put on the TV - "

"No," Sam snaps, and that's the most alert he's been since Dean busted him out. He rolls over again so he's facing Dean, but his eyes linger on the floor. His lips press together tightly, no doubt from the pain of his healing ribs. "It's been so long since it's been quiet," he whispers. "I just want it to be quiet, okay?"

Dean's stunned for a moment as he realises Sam's actually crying. He curls in tighter on himself, hands shaking against his chest. There's sweat beading on his forehead, stringing his already-greasy hair into thick strands. Dean reaches out and presses his palm to Sam's head, wincing at the heat he finds there.

"Jesus," he says. "How're you feeling?"

He knows it's a dumb question the second the words leave his mouth, but Sam answers honestly anyway.

"Sh-shitty," he replies, stuttering now.

Dean knows this routine like the back of his hand, even if he hasn't had to run through it in years, not since Sammy was little enough to let Dean fuss over him. He tucks Sam under the quilt, then fetches a cold flannel from the bathroom to press against his head. Sam shakes again, more violently as it runs down his entire body. They've been here before, but with a very different substance running through Sam's veins. At least he won't be flying around the walls this time.

"How much shit did they pump into you?" Dean asks, sitting down on the mattress by Sam's head.

"Don't remember."

"And what did you buy from the dealer?"

Sam pauses then. "Don't remember that either." They're awkwardly quiet for a minute or two before Sam speaks up again. "I'm sorry. I j-just. I needed to sleep."

"Yeah, I know," is all Dean can say. He pats Sam's hand, spine tingling when he catches sight of his ragged nails. He'll have to clip some of them off, he thinks, focusing on where the right thumbnail hangs, the bed of it scabbing over.

The cloth on Sam's forehead has warmed over already and Dean gently peels it away to re-cool. He's halfway up when Sam's hand flaps out, uncoordinated, and hits him in the thigh.

"Stay here," Sam whispers, voice already drifting away. His eyes are closed again as he mutters lazily, "Just for a minute."

Dean sits back down and rubs gently at Sam's back, the way Dad did when either of them got really sick when they were little. "Okay," Dean says, low enough not to disturb the quiet. "Just a minute."

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There's another prompt fill coming... please yell at me until I go back to studying and finishing my reversebang. I am the queen of procrastination.

Thanks for reading!


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